Keeping it Simple

I just had a great breakfast. You never know what kind of food you’re going to get when travelling. Hotel food is usually expensive and impersonal, prepared by chefs and not cooks. I always prefer a meal prepared by a cook. They taste their own food, and they worry more about that than they do how it looks. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to be served a plate of purple goo that tastes great but looks like it was spit up by a yak. I just don’t need a plate that has been years in design, ready for the cover of Bon Appétit magazine.

I left the hotel this morning in search of a good breakfast, which absolutely is the most important meal of the day. It’s a beautiful day here in Bethesda, Maryland and the air is crisp. I thought of that word “crisp,” as I walked, and it reminded me of bacon. I can enjoy a good breakfast of cereal, even yogurt and granola can satisfy a morning hunger, but if I have my druthers, it’s always the basics: bacon and eggs (and on very special occasions, country ham). I am a fair to middling pancake maker for the ladies of my house, but I do not partake. I am just not a fan. I used to like sausage, but as I grew older and realized what goes into it, I pretty much lost interest. No, bacon might not be healthy, but what you see is what you get.

So I walked the unfamiliar streets of Bethesda, looking for bacon. At one point I saw the recognizable yellow humps of McDonalds rising in the distance, but I was not in the mood for familiar. I wanted a local place, owned and cared for by a family who make it’s living off the satisfaction and repeat business of the community. Meeting those people, and realizing that no matter where I go in this country there are always people like that to find, is a true fringe benefit of travel that I did not expect and appreciate more than I ever thought I would.

About eight blocks from the hotel, after walking past the closed doors of dry cleaners, realty offices and two Thai restaurants, I caught the unmistakable whiff of my goal. The source was not immediately apparent, but my nose was confident, and I was persistent. Like a detective on the trail of a clue, I checked the prevailing winds and continued up Wisconsin Avenue. At the next block I crossed, but then stopped, turned and looked down the side street. There it was…Tastee Diner. A couple was walking out the door, smiling and talking. He had a little grease stain on the front of his shirt. I had found the place I was looking for.

I opened the door and was hit by a blast of overwhelming olfactory goodness. Home fries with onions sizzled in a huge pile on one side of the wide, flat griddle, while French toast, eggs and pancakes laid claim to their own hot sections and were watched over by an attentive cook in the proverbial stained, white apron. The sound of the sizzling food was met by the relaxed Sunday morning chatter of couples and families, and the clinking of silverware against plain white dishes.

Like the best diners and local dives, it had booths along the outside windows and a long counter, equipped with padded, swivel stools. Of course, they were red. I was greeted by an old man, who I took as the owner patriarch, and was given the choice of booth or counter. Being alone, I chose the counter, but also because that is the best vantage point to view the efficiency of the operation. Barely had I settled myself onto the stool until I was presented with a steaming cup of coffee and a glass of water. The lady behind the counter welcomed me with a smile and a menu, and then left me alone. She was busy and I had choices to make.

There were no fancy names on this menu. I understood every word. It could have been a menu from my hometown in Kentucky or my current home in Tennessee, with just a few regional exceptions. We don’t serve “Scrapple” in the South, but I don’t see a lot of Spam or fried bologna on the menus up here either. In general, they don’t serve biscuits and sausage gravy, although some places do have chipped beef gravy. Sometimes you take what you can get, but I usually leave the “chipped beef gravy” for the desperate.

(To save you some time, here is the definition of Scrapple, per Wikipedia: Scrapple is a savory mush of pork scraps and trimmings combined with cornmeal and flour, often buckwheat flour. The mush is formed into a loaf, and slices of the scrapple are then fried before serving. Scraps of meat left over from butchering, not used or sold elsewhere, were made into scrapple to avoid waste. Scrapple is best known as a regional American food of Delaware, Virginia, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and Maryland.) I have not, nor will I ever eat Scrapple.

I’m a basic kind of guy, and I chose a basic kind of breakfast. Two eggs (over medium), bacon and wheat toast. When the waitress asked if wanted “home fries” I could not resist and said “sure.” With the order out of the way, I was able to observe a little. It was fascinating.

I believe a lot of servers at mainstream restaurants count on the price of the menu to supply them with tips. A couple having dinner on an average night will easily spend $40 on a meal, affording the server a decent tip on even mediocre performance. A diner worker doesn’t have the benefit of expensive food. Quality of service and turnaround on available seats is key. Watching the workers of Tastee Diner was a study in the art of efficiency and teamwork. Although they had their own stations, if they were at the window when the cook presented a plate, they grabbed the food and took it to the grateful customer. My food came to me hot, potatoes steaming. Coffee pots filled any cup, and I doubt any cup ever reached a level of empty.

My eggs were just right, not a yolk broken and the whites firm but not overcooked. It’s an art that even the finest chefs in France might never master, but Diner cooks seem to get right most of the time. The potatoes were amazing. I usually prefer the smell of fried potatoes to the taste. I took a bite of these, expecting to leave most of them on the plate. It was the bacon and eggs I really wanted, but the potatoes surprised me. They had not been afraid to cook them, taking them to the point of crunchy, but not burnt. They had been seasoned just right and fried with real butter, not just oil. The serving was generous, and I quickly decided that this would be Brunch, not just Breakfast, and that I would need to walk a few extra blocks on the way back to the hotel. It was worth it.

What had brought me there, enticing me from the street, was the bacon, and it did not disappoint. Three pieces, fried just right (which means crispy enough to break and not have to tear, and all the corners of it evenly done). I carefully rationed the bacon throughout the meal, careful not to waste it or rush. Nothing is worse than having eggs or home fries still on your plate but no bacon left to balance the flavors. As carefully prepared as the meal had been, I was just as careful in its consumption.

The toast was coated lightly with real butter, not some oily spread. Saving the last half piece for some Smucker’s Strawberry jam dug from a peel and eat cup gave me a nice little dessert. It was the perfect end to a perfect diner meal.

While I ate a father and young daughter came in and sat at the counter a few stools from me. It was soon obvious that this was a regular Sunday date for them. The servers knew them by name and asked the girl about school. She was brought a large, cold glass of chocolate milk and her face lit up. It doesn’t get any better for a kid.

I didn’t stay long after I finished eating. I quickly finished off my last cup of coffee before someone tried to refill it and dropped my two dollar tip by my plate. I paid on my way out the door, like you do at all good diners, and gave one last look around before stepping back out into the sunshine. In the time I had been there, many new faces had arrived, taking the rapidly cleaned tables of those who had just left. My own spot had been cleared and wiped down, ready for another lone person in need of a good meal and a friendly smile.

Walking away I felt a strong comfort in the knowledge that there are diners just like Tastee Diner all over the United States, and maybe the world. Most have been there for years. Family owned, serving good food and a welcoming atmosphere that is that rarest of refuge from the commercial, freeze-dried paint by numbers options lining the edges of suburbia. It’s more than a business to them. It’s their life. They don’t make menu choices in the boardroom. They don’t bring in consultants to tell them how to do their jobs. They just serve good food. It really is that simple.